


Snow

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Character, Bittersweet, Blow Jobs, Complete, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, Lies, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, unspoken desire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft wanted what he thought he could not have. But what if, on a snowy winter day, he could?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes stood silently in the cemetery, gloved hands clasped in front of him as he pondered the tombstone at his feet.

It was excellent work, really. The black stone had been an inspired choice: simple enough to be tasteful, but with gilt lettering to reflect a tendency toward the dramatic.

An eloquent monument.

He turned his hand and pulled back the sleeve of the heavy woollen overcoat slightly, just enough to see his watch. It had been only ten minutes. He shivered once (his only concession to the cold weather) and resumed his position.

Twenty minutes at least. That would seem reasonable, and would still get him back to the car before the predicted snow began to fall.

He’d never liked the snow. It was an untidy inconvenience to urban life.

Mycroft stifled a sigh, wishing once more that he had been able to find some way to avoid this particular part of the charade. Unfortunately, he was well aware that he was still being watched. And even a relatively indifferent sibling could be expected to turn up at his younger brother’s grave once in a while.

He nudged at the lilies he’d laid down with the toe of one elegant shoe. A member of his staff had chosen the flowers, but they were something he himself might have selected. There was only one other token in evidence: a small moleskin journal resting against the cold stone.

Mycroft knew perfectly well whose it had been. He knew, too, who had left it there…and recently. The journal was still intact, and the paper within had only just begun to curl with the damp. 

“I guess John still visits,” a deep voice said right next to him.

Mycroft nodded, acknowledging the arrival of the man he’d heard crossing the quiet churchyard during his ruminations. He was well known to Mycroft’s security team, of course. They’d have allowed him to proceed without identification.

“Once a fortnight for nine months, regular as clockwork,” Mycroft replied without looking up. “I had not expected to see you here, Detective Inspector.”

There was a heavy release of air, a very weary sound. “I-I haven’t come since the funeral. I didn’t think I should…that is, I felt…”

Mycroft looked up the man now. “You felt…guilty?”

Greg Lestrade met his gaze briefly before dropping his head to look down at the grave. He nodded, clearing his throat.

The DI was also dressed for the weather, bundled into a hooded parka over jeans and simple leather boots. Not on duty, then.

Mycroft allowed himself the pleasure of observing the handsome policeman for a moment — something he had done many times in the years they had been acquainted on account of Sherlock Holmes.

The salt and pepper hair was a bit longer than usual (still separated from his wife; no one to remind him about haircuts) and ruffled by the wind. The lines around the dark brown eyes were a bit deeper than they had been (long hours spent at work and trying to clear Sherlock’s name). No tan (no winter getaway with the family). His muscular legs were shown to great advantage encased in dark denim. The DI was a very, very attractive man.

This was not a notion Mycroft entertained lightly.

Oh, he’d known he was gay from a young age and had never been anything but comfortable with his orientation. It simply hadn’t ever been an issue, as he refrained from the sorts of messy entanglements that cluttered one’s life and mind. He had always refused to be governed by his baser nature.

Initially, he had been somewhat irritated by his carnal response to Detective Inspector Lestrade’s charming smile and sexy eyes. With the passage of time, however, Mycroft had finally realized that his little ‘crush’ (though he inwardly cringed even now at the application of the word) was, in fact, the perfect situation for a man such as himself.

Lestrade was straight. He was still married (at least technically). Best of all, he was clearly unaware of Mycroft’s attraction.

With no one the wiser, and no risk of infatuation becoming anything more complicated, Mycroft now felt quite safe to indulge himself.

He only wished it were not under such circumstances.

“There is no need,” Mycroft said, more gently than was his habit. “Sherlock would not blame you for any of your actions.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lestrade said gruffly. “I blame myself. I never should have allowed Donovan…”

“She was doing her job, acting on the doubt that had been so deliberately planted. You were doing yours, pursuing every reasonable avenue of enquiry.”

“Of all people, I can’t believe _you_ are trying to make me feel better.”

“Whyever not?”

“He was your brother, Mr. Holmes. I arrested him and drove him to…”

“Now, now, Detective Inspector. We both know Moriarty drove him to do what he did. You were merely a pawn.” Mycroft shifted a little, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “And I have asked you to call me Mycroft, have I not?”

“Sorry. Right. Mycroft.”

Mycroft tried to contain the thrill of pleasure he always felt at the sound of his name on the man’s lips, but found he could not.

“I don’t know that being a pawn helps. A dupe isn’t much better than a traitor,” the DI muttered then, looking back up at him. “And I know you remember my name is Greg.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said swiftly, swallowing hard. “Greg.” He attempted a reassuring smile. “Moriarty toyed with some of the greatest minds of our time, including my brother’s. You are in excellent company. Moriarty was a masterful villain.”

“And mad as a fucking hatter,” Greg added, his voice thick now.

“Indeed he was,” Mycroft agreed, glancing back at the tombstone. “Though there have been many who’ve said the same about my dear brother.”

“He was a bit left of centre, no question,” Greg said solemnly. Mycroft faced him once more to discover the man’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “But he… he became a good man.”

Mycroft was stunned momentarily, held captive by the depth of feeling in the lovely eyes looking up at him and by the sweet sincerity of the words. He felt a distinct tugging in his chest as he struggled to find some means of replying around the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t know you would be here today, but I’m glad.” Greg’s voice was husky with emotion. “I’m glad. I just…I just want you to know how sorry…”

The man broke off suddenly. He turned away, swiping roughly at his eyes with both hands. His shoulders shook a little.

Without thinking, Mycroft laid one hand on Greg’s back. He took a step closer, driven by an illogical, sentimental need to ease the suffering of the man beside him.

He was more than a little startled when Greg spun and threw his body into Mycroft’s, wrapping both arms around his middle and burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft was winded, arms thrown wide, as the man clung to him.

Slowly, he lifted one hand and laid it tentatively over Greg’s shoulder blade. He patted gently, still quite shocked and entirely unfamiliar with the protocol for the situation. And he was rarely ever in the predicament of not knowing what he ought to do.

Of course, the other part of him — the raw, primal, earthy side he’d long ago learned to repress — knew exactly what he _wanted_ to do.

He ached to enfold Greg and hold him fast. To bend his head and nuzzle into the man’s neck and breathe him in. To press gloved fingers into the hair at his nape. To kiss —

Greg gave a shuddering sigh as he pulled back. He regarded Mycroft with a sheepish expression. “Shit…I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I…just so much going on at work. And my wife — I — being here just brought everything — ”

Greg’s words died as Mycroft covered the man’s mouth with his own.

 _Sweet_ , Mycroft thought wildly. _So sweet. Coffee…he’s just had coffee._ The copper’s lips were firm and surprisingly supple as he slanted over them.

He had mere moments, though, to contemplate these wonders before the horror of what he had just done dawned on him.

Mycroft recoiled, putting as much space between himself and Greg as he could. He studied the man in front of him, attempting to gauge the level of his revulsion.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly, his spine straightening. “That was entirely inappropriate. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You kissed me,” Greg said, a little blankly. He blinked several times as he stared back at Mycroft.

“I-I…yes. I’m sorry. I realize how appalled you must be.”

“ _You_ kissed me,” Greg repeated. His eyes looked a little less glazed this time, Mycroft noted hopefully. “On the lips.”

Mycroft could feel colour rising to his cheeks. “If I could beg you to forget this incident. Perhaps we could chalk it up to grief or the shift in the weather…” Mycroft glanced up at the sky from which a light snowfall was now descending.

“Is that what it was?”

There was a painful silence as Mycroft was forced to meet the man’s eyes once more.

“No.”

“Okay,” Greg replied. He sounded confused — but no more than Mycroft was himself.

“I must be going,” Mycroft began. “Again, I apologize. I will…not trouble you further. If you have any additional news regarding my brother’s case, you may feel free to submit it to any member of my office staff. You need not speak with me directly.”

Mycroft was retreating now. Hastily.

He continued backing away from the scene, noting that Gregory seemed frozen in place watching his rapid departure.

“Mycroft, wait…”

“Good day, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft had never come as close to running as he did then. He hurried to his car, grateful for an efficient driver who was already waiting with the door open. When it had closed behind him and the vehicle was in motion, taking him from the scene of his mortification, he peeked over his shoulder through the rear window.

Greg was now standing at the roadside, snow dusting his shoulders and his hair, watching Mycroft drive away.

Mycroft sank into his seat and covered his face with both hands. It was irreparable, without a doubt. The only sensible solution would be never to see Greg Lestrade again.

Ever.

Or at least, he realized with dread, until it was time for his baby brother to return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss can change a moment. Two can change everything.

The mobile phone vibrated again. Mycroft set his whiskey down on the side table with a slight ‘clunk’ and immediately nodded an apology to Lord Knowles (one of the oldest members of the Diogenes). He removed his phone from his breast pocket and checked the number of the incoming call, though he was more than certain he knew who it would be.

G Lestrade. Again. Every day for three weeks. Full marks for persistence.

Mycroft shifted in his seat, remembering with extreme discomfort the manner of their last parting. He had made a complete arse of himself and he was more than certain the DI now wished to assure him that everyone makes mistakes. No need to be embarrassed.

That he could not bear.

He collected his paper and prepared to leave the club. In the cloakroom, an attendant held his coat for him while the reception desk notified his driver. There was a decided weight to the silence on this occasion, he noted, as the club’s employees met his needs without speaking. The lack of conversation was not strictly necessary in the outer rooms of the club, but it had become habit and all parties were loath to change it. Ordinarily, he found it comforting. Today it was…gloomy.

As he approached the vestibule, Mycroft glanced out at the street through the glass. He pulled his gloves on, noting the way pedestrians were clasping their hats and clutching at their coat collars — the temperature had dropped, then.

The pavement had been cleared, but still bore enough ice to be treacherous if one was not paying attention. With heavier snowfall than they’d had in the last several winters, the roads were churned up and sandy and passing vehicles frequently sprayed the mess up over the curb and on to pedestrians. Mycroft grimaced; he truly disliked the snow. Unfortunately, there was yet more of the stuff predicted for the evening.

He opened the front door, but was distracted by a tap on his shoulder. One of the pages pressed a message into his hand with a smile. Mycroft tore at the envelope as he proceeded down the steps.

“It’s blank.”

Mycroft cringed at the familiar, and most unwelcome, voice. He looked up to where Greg stood on the pavement before him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“Sorry. It was the only way I could think of to distract you; catch you so you couldn’t avoid me again,” Greg said softly. His smile was warm, kind.

Mycroft felt his heart sink. He had dealt with so many crises over the course of his career — curtailed economic collapse, thwarted dictators and averted wars. But he simply was not capable of facing _sympathy_.

“I shouldn’t think there is anything of value to say,” Mycroft began coldly. His driver chose that opportune moment to appear with the car. Escape was nigh.

“Well, you won’t know until you try, will you?” Greg countered. He quirked an elbow in the direction my Mycroft’s saloon. “You can give me a ride back to the Yard, yeah?”

“I don’t think —” Mycroft started, knowing his cheeks were becoming rosy with more than the cold.

Greg cut him off. “C’mon, Mycroft. Three weeks. You owe me at least this much.”

Mycroft was calculating the drive time of several different routes back to New Scotland Yard, depending on traffic. If he were very, very lucky, it would be a mercifully brief conversation.

“Or we could do it right here. Though it’s pretty cold to be chatting outside, don’t you think?” Greg chuckled. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, now, in an effort to stay warm.

“Very well,” Mycroft said finally. He brushed past the DI and slid inside the vehicle. He moved immediately to the opposite side of the car, huddling as close to the far door as possible.

Greg slid into the car behind him, closing his own door as he did. He settled, having a quick glance around the car. ”These things never fail to impress,” he said amicably. “It’s a very nice way to travel.”

Mycroft did not reply, but instead stared straight ahead toward the front of the car. The divider was still open between them and the driver. “New Scotland Yard,” he snapped, his nerves frayed.

“Sir,” the driver replied.

Instantly the barrier began to rise. The smoked and soundproofed glass would provide a good deal of privacy. Mycroft took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. At least as no one else would bear witness to his humiliation.

They rode in silence for a minute. Mycroft clenched his fists awaiting the inevitable.

“So,” Greg said at last. “Not exactly sure where to start with this, so maybe I’ll just jump right into the middle.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and turned his face to the window.

“I, uhm, was pretty surprised. You know, when you, ah, kissed me,” Greg began hesitantly. “We probably should have talked, but I was a bit…stuck…and then you ran off.”

“I apologize for any discomfort I may have caused.”

“Don’t apologize again. Please,” Greg chuckled. “It just makes this harder.”

“Makes what harder?” Mycroft asked bitterly. “Thanking me for the compliment of my regard? Expressing regret that it cannot be returned? Offering pity for my hopeless attachment to a straight man I can never have?” Mycroft huffed and lifted one hand to rub over his brow in expectation of the migraine to come. “For god’s sake, please just get it over with.”

“Oh,” Greg said simply.

Mycroft turned. “’Oh’, what?”

Greg cleared his throat, looking very nervous. “That sort of changes what I was going to say.”

“It does? Why?”

Greg met Mycroft’s gaze. “I wasn’t going to say any of those things. But now I know that’s what you were thinking, it makes me feel like a bit of a tit for wanting to tell you that I…I liked it.”

Mycroft slumped. “What?”

Greg rubbed one hand over his thigh in agitation. “I-I just…I didn’t — christ, why does this have to be so fucking awkward?”

The sound of creaking leather gave Mycroft very little warning as Greg lunged across the seat. A hand grasped him firmly by the lapel, dragging him forward into the DI’s embrace.

He might have gasped had he been able to draw breath. But who needed to breathe when Greg Lestrade was kissing them?

Mycroft struggled for a moment, adrift with the clumsy angle and uncertain where to put his hands. All too soon, though, the heat and skill of Greg’s mouth dulled any other considerations. He fell forward, allowing the detective to grasp his nape with one hand while the other slipped down to tug at his waist.

He’d been kissed before, of course. A tentative peck on the cheek with the Prime Minister’s young daughter during a cocktail reception at the Holmes’ residence when he was eleven. His first ‘proper’ kiss with his roommate at Eton. A detailed exploration of French kissing with a member of the Cambridge rowing team during his first year, when he was fifteen. Perfunctory lip contact as required during the “stress relief” he allowed himself once or twice a year (with clean, discreet and thoroughly vetted strangers).

Nothing, however, had prepared him for this.

Greg Lestrade kissed as though he were taking prisoners. Not rough, but rather insistent, demanding and utterly unyielding in a way that was rapidly dissolving Mycroft’s toes.

Greg had Mycroft’s lower lip between both of his own. He was sucking gently — not making any attempt at anything deeper, but simply pulsing the fullness toward his own heat. He’d tilted his head, his nose rubbing relentlessly against Mycroft’s as he angled for better contact.

Mycroft could not help the deep groan that welled up in him. Greg took the opportunity to press Mycroft’s lips apart — just a fraction — and capture the needy sound. He responded with one of his own before flicking his tongue over the tip of Mycroft’s.

Mycroft responded greedily; he grasped at Greg’s jaw and angled the man’s face until he had just the position he was looking for. He thrust his tongue into the man’s mouth.

Greg growled his approval and answered each thrust with one of his own. He tugged Mycroft toward him, turning slightly so he could press their chests together. His thumb was stroking over Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft knew he should stop. He was drowning in sensation; could hear nothing but the soft wet sounds of their mouths and the blood pounding in his own ears. He could barely think at all, and it was dangerous. But he wanted it. So very, very badly.

When they finally parted, he crumpled weakly against the leather seat.

“Jesus,” Greg rasped, his breathing ragged as he pulled back. He hovered over Mycroft looking thoroughly debauched. His lips were reddened and his eyes heavy-lidded.

Mycroft was panting, still feeling decidedly off-kilter. It was not possible that this was happening. He did not engage in — and Greg was straight! How…

“Sorry. Sorry. That was…probably should have finished talking first.”

“But you’re not…”

“I had no idea,” Greg continued. “About you, that is. I’ve been attracted to blokes before — got off with a few, back in the day. And I’m not blind; I do notice an attractive man.” Greg’s eyes roamed over Mycroft’s face and down over his coat-covered chest. “Thing is, it’s been decades since I looked at a man and allowed myself to think about having sex with him. But that’s all I’ve been able to think about since you kissed me.”

“You-you’re lonely. Your divorce…perhaps the emotion of my brother’s death. Or perhaps you’re just curious — ”

“No,” Greg said firmly, leaning forward. He held Mycroft by his tie. “No — well, I am curious…mostly about what you look like out of your three-piece suit. But this has nothing to do with any of that. And I haven’t been _that_ lonely since my wife left, thanks very much. There have been a couple of women. As for Sherlock, shit, I’ve been upset about that for months — hasn’t sent me cruising the clubs.”

“Then…why?”

Greg smirked, his mouth inches from Mycroft’s. “I fell in love and it happened to be with a woman. I was married for 20 years, and we were together for six years before that. I was absolutely fucking faithful to that heartless —” He closed his eyes as though trying to purge a memory. When his eyes opened again, Mycroft could see that the pupils were dilated. “Obviously I haven’t wanted a man since I became single again because I was waiting for the right one.”

Mycroft felt himself going cross-eyed in an effort to focus on Greg’s face so close to his own. He could not tear his gaze from the man’s lips, particularly as the DI ran the tip of his tongue over them. He shivered. “Are — ” Mycroft swallowed. “Are you saying I’ve triggered some kind of latent bisexuality?”

“Does it seem latent to you?” The dark brown eyes were focused now on Mycroft’s mouth.

Mycroft tried to shake his head. He had never felt less like himself; he was completely out of control. He could not give in to the needs of his body like this. Where would it end?

The moist heat of Greg’s breath buffeted against Mycroft’s cheek. “I didn’t know you were…interested. Sorry about that — I missed it. But now that I _do_ know, Mycroft Holmes, you’re mine.”

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed.

“I want to hear you call my name when you come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

A hand dropped into Mycroft’s lap and deft fingers slid beneath the edge of the overcoat to seek his burgeoning erection.

“With good reason, I’d say,” Greg rumbled, teasing the tip of his tongue along the edge of Mycroft’s jaw while he smoothed his fingertips over the tell-tale bulge in Mycroft’s bespoke trousers.

“ _God_ …don’t…I can’t…”

“Why not?”

Mycroft retreated just enough to see Greg’s face properly. “Because I don’t _do_ this.”

“What? Sex? Then what was kissing me about?”

“No, I do sex. When necessary. I just don’t do _this_.”

Greg looked puzzled for a moment then he smiled. “Oh, you don’t do _relationships_.” His thumb was rubbing lazy patterns over Mycroft’s prick through the fine wool. “And when _necessary_? My god, you really haven’t been doing this right if you think that’s what shagging’s about.”

Mycroft tried to extricate himself from Greg’s arms. The other man was not cooperating. “I am not comfortable with sentiment, feelings…I don’t…”

Greg leaned in again, his smile very confident. “Why don’t we just deal with the situation at hand, and let the rest take care of itself?” He nipped at Mycroft’s mouth. “Do you want me?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Then have me,” Greg whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiating terms of surrender.

Mycroft faced the keypad, trying to control his shaking fingers with Greg standing right behind him.

In between kisses, Greg had managed to convince him that neither of them was in any condition to be going back to work, and it was nearly teatime anyway. Mycroft didn’t really remember taking the decision to have the driver drop them at his townhouse, but he must have done.

Here they were.

He checked over his shoulder; Greg was contemplating his shoes, hands behind his back. He glanced up and caught Mycroft’s eye. His smile was a little wicked, but subtle enough to go unnoticed.

Mycroft’s security team were nowhere in sight (they were well trained enough to recognize the need to withdraw), but he was conscious of the fact that they were being watched. He fumbled the passcode once, mentally cursing himself for the laziness that had prompted him to have his assistant so often complete the task for him.

“Apologies,” he mumbled, tugging his glove free.

“S’okay,” Greg chuckled softly. “We’ve got all night.”

The implications of the words ran in a straight line through Mycroft’s body to his cock. He punched the code in again with his bare hand and sighed with relief when the lock released. He pushed the door wide and stepped through, quickly moving out of the way to allow Greg to follow so he could close it again behind them.

Mycroft turned to the keypad inside the door and repeated the code, quickly adjusting for “home” mode (no motion sensors and no surveillance in private rooms). He turned to find Greg taking in their surroundings.

“This is nice,” Greg said amiably, sounding for all the world as though he hadn’t very recently had his hand inside Mycroft’s pants.

“It’s just somewhere to sleep. I spend very little time here.”

“Hmm.” Greg nodded. He locked eyes with Mycroft once more, moving to close the distance between them. It was only a few inches, really, but it felt like miles. Greg moved slowly and deliberately, casually sliding his heavy overcoat off as he did.

“I’m going to leave this here, all right?” He let the coat slide from his arms to drop on the floor behind him.

Mycroft nodded, his mouth suddenly very dry. He took a step back without really meaning to, finding himself pressed up against the door. He flattened his palms against it for support.

“You look concerned,” Greg said gently. He now stood between Mycroft’s slightly parted feet, his body nestled as close as he could get. “What’s going on in there?” He lifted his hand to run one thumb over Mycroft’s brow before sliding his palm down over the side of the Mycroft’s face. “Are you sure about this? This is what you want? We can stop if —”

“NO!”

Greg burst out laughing, dropping his cheek to rest against Mycroft’s. “Thank god. You had me worried there for a moment.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, resting a hand in the small of Greg’s back. “I do want this. However, it has been some time for me. I’m…out of practice.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Greg agreed, still snickering a bit. “I haven’t touched a cock other than my own since I was about 20. So we’re a pair; neither of us really sure what we’re about.”

Mycroft felt his body relaxing a little. He smiled. “I suppose not.” He turned his head so he could see Greg. He raised his hand to run his fingers through the greying dark hair. “You’ve had a haircut since I saw you last.”

“Donovan said I was starting to look scruffy.”

“No, never that,” Mycroft disagreed. He could feel the heat of Greg’s groin pressed into his hip; his cock throbbed. “You looked rugged, and — though I would have doubted it could be so — even more handsome than before.” He took a chance and kissed the man’s cheek, inhaling deeply as he did. Greg smelled of something a little spicy and it was heavenly.

“Jesus,” Greg whispered. He was trembling just a little as his hands found their way to the buttons on Mycroft’s overcoat. “Keep that up and my head will swell.”

“That seems ripe for tawdry innuendo, but I think instead…” While Greg busied himself with helping Mycroft shed his outerwear, Mycroft slipped his hand between them and cupped the man’s prick. He squeezed gently, running his thumb down until he could feel the head.

“Fuck…” Greg managed to finish with Mycroft’s coat buttons before dropping his head to rest against Mycroft’s. He ground himself into the touch, panting. “God, that…we need to go…somewhere…fast…please.”

“Yes,” Mycroft pushed them from the door. He steadied the slightly shorter man on his feet then removed his own coat. He contemplated turning to hang it up, but he found Greg staring at his crotch and lost all will to be neat. He released the expensive wool into a heap at his feet. “Upstairs.”

Greg nodded, immediately grabbing the offered hand. Mycroft held it firmly as he led them up to his private rooms. A hand smoothed over his buttock as they climbed the steps; Mycroft bit his lip to keep from crying out.

When they reached Mycroft’s utilitarian grey bedroom, Greg became even more handsy. He shoved Mycroft through the open door, turning him so they could kiss as they stumbled toward the bed. He pushed and tugged at Mycroft’s clothes, feeling and squeezing bits of flesh as he did. He managed to remove the suit jacket and had fiddled his way through the waistcoat buttons before tugging the dress shirt from the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers and sliding both hands beneath.

“Your skin is so soft…I want to lick every inch of you,” he rumbled into Mycroft’s throat. One hand strayed over Mycroft’s belly and up over his chest. The sound Greg made was pained. “Chest hair, christ, I’d forgotten how good that feels.” He located a nipple and circled it with his thumb. “Do you like to have them sucked?”

Mycroft nodded, dazed. He’d managed somehow to remove Greg’s jacket, but the touch to his bare flesh had brought him to a stuttering stop. He wanted to see — _needed_ to see. “Please,” he nearly whimpered. “Please, can we…” He tugged on Greg’s shirtsleeve by way of explanation.

The other man grunted his agreement, reluctantly removing his hands from Mycroft to fumble with his own clothes. Mycroft unbuttoned and removed his own shirt, never taking his eyes from Greg. He watched, open-mouthed, as the lovely golden skin was revealed.

The copper’s shoulders were broad, his chest still admirably defined and covered with a dusting of dark hair. His very slightly softened belly was the only indicator that he was no longer in his twenties. Nevertheless, many men half his age would feel lucky to look like Greg Lestrade.

Greg noticed him staring; his smile was a little shy. He ran a hand over his torso. “Not as fit as I could be…”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft blurted. He reached out tentatively, gratified when Greg stepped a little closer. Mycroft traced his fingers over one pectoral muscle. “You are more than I could ever have imagined. You are lovely.”

Greg began to slide Mycroft’s trousers and pants off. He was staring intently at Mycroft’s chest as he did so, licking his lips. He tugged the offending articles of clothing down far enough for Mycroft to step out of them. “You have freckles.”

Mycroft looked down at himself, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “They are unfortunate, yes.”

Greg’s expression, when he’d straightened, was puzzled. “What? Fuck, no. They are — ” He bent his head to kiss Mycroft’s shoulder reverently even as he grasped two handfuls of Mycroft’s naked bottom and tugged their bodies together, groin to groin. He sighed, eyes closed. “They are absolutely beautiful. You are entirely covered with stars.”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as his naked cock rubbed against the rough surface of Greg’s serviceable wool trousers. “Why…oh god…why are you still half dressed?”

The man hummed happily, grinding his own considerable erection against the tender flesh of Mycroft’s exposed prick. Greg began to suckle at Mycroft’s neck, clearly marking the pale skin.

“Please, Greg. I want to see all of you.”

The man shifted, though he refused to release the soft spot beneath Mycroft’s ear he had claimed with his mouth when Mycroft reached for his belt.

When the dark trousers and plain white boxers hit the floor, there was nothing but socks left. Mycroft did not have the patience to concern himself with that. Not when the pads of Greg’s thumbs were stroking relentlessly over his nipples. “Greg…” he breathed.

“Good?”

Mycroft nodded shakily. “Yes, yes, yes…”

Their cocks touched and Mycroft nearly levitated with the glorious sensation of Lestrade’s hot, hard length against his own. He could feel their foreskins catching, tugging and sliding as they rocked together. He tried to steady himself, but he was rapidly losing his equilibrium.

“Down?” He tried to gesture to the bed just behind him, but found he could not will his fingers to relinquish their hold on Lestrade’s bicep.

Greg pulled back to smile at him. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Mycroft gasped as he was shoved backwards. He landed heavily on the bed, feet still planted on the floor. He started to prop up on his elbows when Greg clambered over him.

“C’mon,” the man prodded, trying to drag Mycroft toward the centre of the bed. “Budge up.”

Mycroft pushed himself back until he was splayed, spread eagle, in the middle of his very expensive Egyptian cotton duvet. Greg was on his hands and knees above him.

“You look edible,” Greg praised between teasing kisses. “I’m going to suck your cock, Mycroft Holmes,” he growled. He dipped his head to lick his way across Mycroft’s shoulders and chest. “Pretty sure I still have the knack. If not, well…”

“Greg, please,” Mycroft begged. The man’s mouth was mere centimetres from his nipple. “Please….”

“Mmmmm, yes. You’re right. Good place to start.”

Mycroft arched off the bed as Greg sucked the nub between his teeth. He nibbled and tickled with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, god, oh, god…”

Greg began long, hard pulls on the taut, tumescent flesh. Mycroft resisted the urge to weave his fingers into the man’s hair — he had a tendency to tug, and they were not on such terms. Not yet. _Not yet? Oh, god._

“Fuck!” Mycroft shouted as Greg shifted to capture his other nipple. The copper had dropped his weight to press into Mycroft’s body and his hands had slid around to grab hold of Mycroft’s bum. Greg was kneading with one hand, while the fingers of the other delved between Mycroft’s cheeks to massage over his puckered hole.

Greg gasped, noisily pulling off Mycroft’s nipple. “I would really like to taste you there someday.”

Mycroft went still; Greg checked on him.

“I mean, if you want. I know rimming isn’t for everyone.”

“No, I…that would be fine.”

“Then what?”

“You said someday.”

Greg grinned. “Next time?” He hesitated a little. “If…if we do this again, that is.”

Mycroft nodded vehemently — his easy acquiescence probably should bother him, but it didn’t. He wanted a next time. And a time after that. Damn the consequences.

“Oh, good,” Greg relaxed a little. The tip of his finger had just pressed inside Mycroft’s entrance. Greg held Mycroft’s gaze as he explored. “What about…you know?”

“I…have. Usually I don’t,” Mycroft confessed, when he could catch his breath. He was feeling a little dizzy. “It’s been…oh, _god_ …some time. Y-you?”

Greg’s smile was a little crooked; he was rolling his hips just so to keep a delicious friction between their cocks. “I’ve topped and bottomed. Though obviously that was quite a long time ago now. Still, if we went nice and slow...”

Mycroft sucked in a noisy breath as Greg probed a little deeper with his finger. Greg froze.

“But if you don’t want to that’s okay.” He removed his hand from Mycroft’s cleft, instead squeezing the cheek. “We don’t have to. Lots of other lovely things.”

“Greg,” Mycroft soothed. He managed to lift his fingers to stroke over the man’s brow. “We’ll see, shall we?”

“Right. Yeah. Fair enough.” Greg kissed him gently, his sexy smile returned. “Now then, where was I?”

Mycroft tried not to shout as Greg resumed thrusting against him — his prick was receiving a thorough seeing to pinned between the weight of Greg’s body and his own hip. Greg’s beautiful dark eyes were locked onto Mycroft’s as he moved. A little gasp escaped Greg’s lips and Mycroft’s belly clenched with lust.

“More…god, please,” Mycroft whimpered.

“Shhhhhh,” Greg soothed, pistoning his hips with a little more vigour. “I know, sexy. It’s okay. I know.” He dipped his head for a languid kiss. “I’ve got you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is better than any fantasy.

Mycroft nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He caressed Greg’s biceps as the man resumed his path down over Mycroft’s belly.

“Ginger. Jesus,” Greg wheezed. He nuzzled into the reddish hair that formed a trail leading to Mycroft’s groin.

“Carpets don’t match…the drapes,” Mycroft panted, feeling a little defensive. “Sorry — ”

Greg’s head tilted up just long enough for Mycroft to see the unguarded desire on his face.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Greg mouthed greedily over the lightly furred lower abdomen. “Fucking ginger…fucking freckles…goddamn fantasy…jesus, how have I not come yet?”

Mycroft’s face heated — he’d never been anyone’s fantasy before.

He was about to say as much when Greg’s tongue swirled over the tip of his cock. His fists returned to twisting the sheets; his moans very broken.

Greg slid the foreskin down a little, flicking his tongue over Mycroft’s fraenulum.

“Oh, GOD!”

Greg hummed happily, lapping at the bead of pre-come that dribbled from Mycroft’s slit. His hand fastened around the base of the swollen shaft and pumped gently as he worked his mouth over the head.

He slurped as he pulled back. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Still trying to remember how to do this properly.”

“Fuck properly,” Mycroft rasped.

Greg chuckled, returning to his task. He slid the foreskin back up and dipped his tongue between the soft skin and the firmness beneath. He probed and stretched, the sheath providing a lovely added pressure to his attentions.

“Yes, there — fuck.” Mycroft groaned, his fingers twitching with the urge to tighten into his copper’s silvery hair. _His copper?_

Greg worked on Mycroft’s glans for a moment as it began to peek through the foreskin. Mycroft arched off the bed as Greg’s mouth finally eased down over his length. Greg worked his agile tongue over the underside as he did.

“Greg….”

Greg swallowed around him then slowly withdrew. “Mmmmm,” he moaned as he pulled off. “God, you taste good.”

He sucked Mycroft’s cock back in quickly and began to bob.

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed. He didn’t want to look away from the lovely man between his legs; he couldn’t resist the urge the to block out everything but the sensation of wet heat over his prick.

Gregory picked up pace. With his free hand, he fondled and cupped Mycroft’s scrotum.

Mycroft bit down hard on his lip, determined not to embarrass himself as he teetered closer to the edge. But it had been too long; there was no question. His body was primed for release and it was likely to happen far more quickly than he would like.

Greg focussed his tongue on the bundle of nerves, laving firmly as he suckled a little at the liquid leaking from the tip of Mycroft’s cock.

“I’m sorry…I can’t…oh, god, I’m going to — Greg!”

Mycroft’s eyes flew open and his body tensed as he came, his belly rippling with each wonderful wave.

Greg did not pull off, but continued sucking gamely as Mycroft’s load shot down his throat. He choked a little finally and relented; the come dribbled out over his chin. He swiped it away with a sheepish expression.

“May need to work on that a little,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.

Mycroft was already reaching for him, desperate to taste himself on the man’s lips. The kiss was obscene — tongues tangling over the traces of come. Greg was grunting and making the most deliciously moist noises against Mycroft’s lips. It was the filthiest thing Mycroft had ever experienced.

But he was not insensible to Greg’s state of need. He could feel the man’s arousal against his belly.

“What would you like?” he asked, his voice still wavering a bit.

Greg was grinding against him, panting. “Between your thighs. Please.”

Mycroft kissed him and immediately shifted to roll to his side. Greg fell into the space behind him, spooning up against his back.

“Do you have anything?” Greg asked weakly.

“Hand lotion. Bedside table.”

Mycroft felt him swivel away only to return instantly, his hands smacking together with the benefit of expensive Swiss “lubricant.” A slick hand probed between his thighs.

“Okay?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. He shifted until he felt Greg’s cock slip into the tight pocket between his legs. He crossed his ankles to improve friction; Greg moaned and pushed ahead until his cock slipped completely between Mycroft’s greasy thighs. His cock brushed under Mycroft’s sac and over his perineum, causing Mycroft to make a very undignified noise.

“Still okay?” Greg repeated.

“Fine,” Mycroft squeaked. He grabbed at the hand that snaked around his chest and held on. Had he not just come, he was certain he would be hard again with the slap of sweaty flesh, the pulsing heat between his legs and the delightful rubbing against his own slightly over-sensitive body.

It didn’t take long for Greg to finish. He roared something unintelligible as his release streaked out over Mycroft and his high-end bedding.

Greg rested his head against the back of Mycroft’s as he recovered. “Mycroft,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” the other man said softly. “I just kind of like saying your name.” He tweaked at one of Mycroft’s nipples. “And you like saying mine.”

Mycroft cleared his throat “Yes, well…”

“I made you come, calling my name.”

“All right.”

“I did, though.”

“Yes. Fine.”

Mycroft smiled, sated and strangely calmed. He closed his eyes, allowing his body to fully repose. Just for a moment.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where do we go from here?

The room was dark when he woke. Mycroft moved gently, aware both of the man snoring against his back and the dried come coating his thighs.

He managed to extricate himself, with some difficulty. He stood by the bed, watching as Greg rolled over onto his back. At some point, the man must have pulled the chenille throw at the foot of the bed over them. Mycroft tugged it back into place up around Greg’s shoulders with fondness.

He considered the DI — his brother’s “friend on the force” and sometime minder — as he slept. He was such a very handsome man, well liked (Mycroft had enough CCTV footage to attest to that) and gregarious. Greg was respected in his job, adored by his children (Joshua, 16, and Flora, 12) and trusted by Sherlock Holmes. Greg Lestrade was extraordinary.

How on earth had this happened?

Mycroft wrapped his arms around his bare body and considered a quick shower. He moved instead to pull his dressing gown from the nearby wardrobe — he wasn’t yet ready to wash the evidence of his lover from his body.

As he tugged the robe on, he replayed the events of the day. He tried desperately to identify any hints of pity or remorse in the DI’s words or expressions, but there were none.

They’d made love. It had been wonderful. Neither of them — apparently — felt any regret.

Strangest of all, Mycroft wanted more. More than just sex.

It was a terrible idea, of course. Nothing could be less practical. He had been on his own for far too long to consider trying to fit another being into his life. Greg had only recently divorced and he had children to think of. They both worked ridiculous hours, and Mycroft was frequently incommunicado in another part of the world.

And there were the lies — much bigger than the two of them and far more dangerous. He could not reveal the truth about his brother. Not to anyone. Not even to Greg. Not yet.

It would never work.

He stepped to the window and pushed the curtain aside to glance out at the quiet street. The promised snow was falling, covering everything in a downy blanket.

“Hey.”

A warm body pressed into his back and strong arms circled his chest. Greg’s hands slipped beneath the dressing gown as his mouth descended to press a gentle kiss into Mycroft’s neck.

“Are you watching the snow?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ve never fully appreciated it before, but now it will always remind me of this.”

“Hmmm. That’s nice.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Greg assured him, squeezing a little tighter. “I wasn’t sure if…do you want me to stay?”

Mycroft turned in his arms, trepidatious but determined. “I do, if that’s what you want. You needn’t feel any obligation. I understand if you must leave…”

Once again, Greg’s finger pressed over Mycroft’s mouth. “I want to sleep here. With you,” he said firmly, his chin dipping with the gravity of his words. “Tonight was amazing, and I’m not ready for it to end. Maybe we could have another go in the morning…before I make you breakfast.”

“Oh.”

“Is that a yes?”

Mycroft pondered this, watching the light from the street playing over Greg’s handsome features. He cupped the man’s jaw. “Very much so.”

Greg grinned, tugging him close. Mycroft relaxed into the embrace, resting his head against Greg’s.

Perhaps in the spring, he thought. In the spring there might be a way — if Sherlock were safe and the risk was reduced. Perhaps then…

“Come back to bed,” Greg said softly, kissing Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft nodded and allowed himself to be led back to the bed. Greg tore back the duvet as Mycroft removed his robe and settled on the mattress. Greg cuddled up against him and pulled the covers up to his nose.

“Chilly,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft hummed his agreement and wrapped his arms around the police detective. _His_ police detective. His lover.

In the spring, then. In the spring, he would find a way.

But for now, they had the snow.

**Author's Note:**

> I have written a sad(ish) ending. I do apologize. I can only justify it by pointing out that there is hope, too. This is just a little thing that came to me during a snowstorm--it is my first non-omegaverse Mystrade, so I hope it does not disappoint.
> 
> If you want a soundtrack, try Sarah McLachlan's cover of the classic Gordon Lightfoot tune, Song for a Winter's Night (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60bNzi9dA9U).


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